


No Tool

by hobgoblin123



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobgoblin123/pseuds/hobgoblin123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hunter's idea of having a night out is teaching a human nuisance that he's no tool. Only very faint hints at slash, but contains violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Tool

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.
> 
> Quotes: 'We use what tools we must' is from Black Sun Rising, page 185.
> 
> A/N: This story was previously posted on fanfiction net in 2012, but has been edited to correct some of the grammatical blunders.

' _As a concerned citizen of Jaggonath, I urgently appeal to our indifferent, undutiful authorities to end this unholy threat once and for all. Our homes and streets have to become safe again instead of offering hunting grounds for those hellish abominations who roam our city at night, choosing their prey from our beloved wives and daughters for their vile pleasure.'_

With a satisfied sigh, the Honourable Judge Fisher put aside his pen and rubbed his stiff hands. The fire in the open fireplace in his bedroom had burned down to a weak glow, and to his dismay he could feel the impending first storm of the approaching winter deep down in his old bones. The wind had already freshened up considerably, and he had lived long enough to know that it would get worse ere the night was over. Much worse. Fisher shivered. As he wasn't getting any younger, it was high time to realize his ambitions. 

If he was first mayor of Jaggonath, more honours might follow, maybe a seat in the High Council or even a post at the ministry. He had no doubts that he was destined for greater tasks than being burdened day after day with narrow-minded neighbourhood quarrels, divorces and moronic petty criminals, and the population's increasing hysteria regarding the fiend sitting in the Forbidden Forest like a spider in her web suited him well for his election campaign. 'The Hunter' the stupid multitudes called him full of horror and awe, a title he had verily earned if the incoherent ramblings of the few victims who had somehow managed to escape his clutches just to kill themselves immediately afterwards were anything to go by.

The Judge snorted contemptuously. For his part, he couldn't care less about the fate of the miserable wenches who were foolish enough to stay outside after nightfall, but why not utilize the monster and the visceral fear of the citizens to discredit his political opponents? 'We use what tools we must.' Try as he might, he couldn't remember which prominent Ernan had shaped this famous phrase, but he would be damned if he didn't use that spawn of hell and his nocturnal enterprises for his own devices.

A gust of wind wailed around the house like the souls of the condemned, causing the shutters to rattle against their latches, and he pulled his flimsy, tan dressing gown tighter around his narrow shoulders. Frugality was doubtlessly recommendable, but tonight he needed a glass of hot grog and some extra firewood. Cursing his aching joints, he struggled to his feet and rang for his housekeeper.

When, after five minutes that felt like thirty, still nothing was happening, Fisher's bushy white brows drew together in an impatient frown. For about twenty years, Janet had diligently fulfilled her duty in his household and had, if necessary, also warmed his bed, but now one could tell her age, and it was time to look for a replacement. The meagre payment for her services certainly hadn't allowed her any savings, but as far as he knew, she had relatives in Kale, and if she wouldn't be welcome at their home, there was still the workhouse for the poor. The Judge shrugged indifferently. He was, after all, not a charitable institution, and sentimentality had never been an option to him.

A renewed, more forceful pull at the bell still brought no response, and Fisher's mood rapidly darkened from mere impatience to petulant anger. Had the lazy slut turned deaf all at once? Thinking about it, he should have replaced her years ago with some hard-working and comely maiden. With the cold season just around the corner, there wouldn't be a shortage of desperate, more than willing young women, and he decided not to wait until spring, but to look for a new servant the first thing in the morning.

A muffled moan, followed by a noise that sounded suspiciously like something heavy hitting the floor, wiped the lecherous grin off his lips. His eyes wide with bewilderment, he pricked up his ears, wondering what the hell was going on downstairs. Perhaps the old hag had been taken sick all at once, and he could very well do without having to call a quack in the deep of the night, thank you very much, not to mention the doctor's bill he would have to cough up from his own pocket.

For a few seconds, he seriously contemplated to let the matter rest. Going to bed without an alcoholic beverage to warm him up wouldn't kill him. If need be, there were still several spare woollen blankets in his linen cupboard. And if Janet had truly fallen ill, well, she was expendable, wasn't she?

But then an ominous sound reached his ears from the floor below once again, a mere hint of movement all but inaudible over the fierce howling of the wind but radiating such an almost palpable aura of menace that he could feel a cold trickle of dread running down his spine. His heart in his mouth, Fisher froze, all his senses on the alert.

The old house had been the home of his family for generations now, and he'd been born in the same bed with the faded, rose patterned draperies that had been smiling at him invitingly a few minutes ago. He knew the cracking of the ancient woodwork, the creak of a floorboard in the hallway and the unnerving clatter of those loose shingles whose much-needed repair was postponed each spring until the onset of the first autumn storms reminded him of his neglect. None of these familiar, commonplace noises could be responsible for the sensation of imminent danger which made his hairs stand on end all over his body.

"Janet?" Fisher croaked, his old man's voice shaking with fear, but there was no answer to his call. Summoning up his courage, he seized a poker with trembling hands, tiptoed to his bedroom door and opened it ever so cautiously. If this was an absurd joke played on him by one of his political opponents or a silly prank by some hormone-addled teenagers, the delinquents were in for a nasty surprise. He had no intention whatsoever of letting them get the better of him.

If, on the other hand, the trespasser was one of the faeborn being on the prowl for a nice midnight snack, his chances would drop significantly. He had hired a supposedly competent sorcerer for an outrageous fee to Ward the doors and windows against demonic attacks, but on Erna there was no one hundred percent protection against the faeborn, a bitter truth that the human colonists had learned the hard way centuries ago.

Muttering an archaic Banishing through gritted teeth that his mother had taught him in times long gone, Fisher stepped into the dark corridor. No hellish abomination armed with razor-sharp fangs and claws jumped at him, but flickering candle light pouring from his study lit up the lower part of the stairway. Somewhat taken aback, he descended a few steps as quietly as a mouse, but he hadn't come very far when the faint rustle of not paper just within his hearing range made way for the unmistakable sound of a wine bottle being uncorked, followed by what he suspected to be his vintage Merlo gurgling into a glass. What the heck...?

The Judge heaved a low but nonetheless heartfelt sigh of relief. Demons generally preferred their human prey's flesh, blood or emotions instead of ransacking a library and enjoying a fine glass of wine, and simple burglars for obvious reasons were wont to operate in a more secretive manner. There had to be a different explanation for the strange occurrences of the night. Given her age and her overworked appearance, it wasn't very likely that Janet was involved in an amorous affair, but it was possible, nonetheless. Maybe she had daringly invited her lover to a clandestine rendezvous, and the man was now knocking back the best his storage cellar had to offer, let alone laying his dirty fingers on his valuable collection of antique books, a rarely used heritage from a distant cousin.

Rage replaced apprehension, and Fisher silently vowed to drive his employee out of his house that very night if his suspicions proved true. His spirits boosted, he clambered down the rest of the steps, but stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the hallway. A weird, metallic odour assaulted his nose, strange but yet familiar, and his nostrils flared while he stood still like a statue, testing the air in the manner of a terrified animal. Then realization dawned on him, and his eyes went wide with shock. Blood, the whole lower floor was reeking of blood and a faint  whiff of human excrements, a repulsive mixture at home on every battlefield but utterly out of place in a peaceful home.

A whimper born from sheer, unadulterated terror rose in his throat, but before he could turn tail and run, his nocturnal visitor broke his silence. "Please enter, Honourable, and keep me company," he said quietly. "The nights can be long and lonely at this time of the year."

It was doubtlessly the voice of a man, smooth, cultivated and absolutely irresistible, its uncanny pull so overwhelming that Fisher's feet moved on their own account and carried him over the threshold very much against his will before he could do so much as blink.

For a short moment, his brain simply refused to process the visual input. Then his jaw dropped, and the poker fell from his limp hand, landing on the polished wooden floor with a metallic clank that did nothing to snap him out of his stupor.

In stark contrast to his chilly bedroom, a cheerful fire was burning in the fireplace, the flames softly playing over whole stacks of books that had been pulled from the shelves. They warred for space on the huge alteroak table dominating the room with a bottle of his Merlo just as he had guessed, placed in convenient reach of a shadowy figure browsing through an ancient, leather-bound volume.

To Fisher's immediate horror, the scholarly, deceptively peaceful tableau was observed by Janet's glassy eyes. Along with the better part of her intestinal loops, her severed head had been suspended from the chandelier by her long hair while the eviscerated carcass lay spread-eagled right under the window, carelessly tossed away like a broken doll.

 _There should be more blood_ , Fisher thought dazedly. _Where the hell has the rest of her blood gone?_

His unvoiced question somehow answered itself when slender fingers stopped turning the pages with amazing gentleness, just to close around the stem of a silver goblet he had never seen before. As it was raised and leisurely swirled anticlockwise, the red liquid inside that was just a little bit too thick for pure wine sparkled in the firelight like a precious ruby. "Here's to you, Honourable. I hope you don't mind that I dared to season your delectable Merlo a bit. I'm a man of refined tastes."

Registering the cold amusement lurking just behind the pleasant façade, Fisher felt the bile rising in his throat. "You look rather pale," the stranger chortled in response to his nauseated mien. "Are you sure that you don't want to share a drink with me? What a pity we can't invite your indisposed servant to our merry gathering."

When the goblet was offered to him mockingly, the Judge at last lost his fight against his protesting innards and emptied the contents of his stomach over his felt slippers, heaving until his insides were dry.The attack left him on his knees, trembling in every limb and his midriff twisted into a tight knot. Automatically, his right hand went to his mouth in order to wipe the vomit from his chin, but the soft hiss of silk stopped any attempts to cleanse himself.

Slowly, ever so slowly the creature occupying his favourite armchair lowered the book it had been studying so intently, and Fisher very nearly choked on his own breath. Soon he would have to face the demon, and he remembered all too well the unnerving stories about beings so ghastly and vile that their mere sight could transform a stout fellow into a babbling madman.

His pulse hammering in his ears and his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, he forced his body to move and struggled to his feet with his last ounce of strength, but he had barely managed a few halting steps before he collapsed again, his chest torn apart by a pain so intolerable that he had no breath left to scream.

Darkness approached him on raven black wings, swooped down on him like a hunting bird of prey and carried him off to the realms of utter oblivion. The last thing he heard was a low chuckle laced with such malevolence that it seemed to burn his ears with the fires of hell. _The laughter of the damned,_ he thought, and then everything was still and black.


End file.
